


En face

by afearfulbride



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: AU, Human Zenyatta, Light Bondage, M/M, Oral Sex, Sort Of, The Nutcracker and The Rat King, this is just a pwp drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:26:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21773668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afearfulbride/pseuds/afearfulbride
Relationships: Reaper | Gabriel Reyes/Tekhartha Zenyatta
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22





	En face

Away from light, away from hope, the prince slumped forward in his ropes, en pointe and with arms outspread, like a butterfly pinned to a board. Beautiful in the way of all spoiled things. The Rat King studies him from his vantage point on a broken pipe, crouched low in the shadows as if he might be seen by his unconscious captive. Even at this distance he can see the delicate twitch of his eyelids, paper-thin and flushed, as the shadows of their confrontation chase him through his dreams: the white lightning of swords and the way the first of freshly spilled rat-blood, like liquid iron across his cheek, had made the young prince flinch.

For a few hours, at least, until the wounds lacing the Rat King's body healed, scarred and vanished, restoring his magic, the curse would be lifted.

He drops beside the grating to which the prince as been bound, almost silent in spite of his size. The cap has fallen from his head, and long, silky strands of hair stream loosely about his shoulders, while the scarlet ribbon that once held it all together serves a new purpose, a pretty gag for a pretty mouth. By all rights the King knows he should hate him.

The ivory points of two claws find the prince’s chin, lift it, and in response the bruisy space beneath his eyes twitches. With a flutter of eyelashes they open, stark white and then suddenly the blue of his irises rolls forward and stares forward, unseeing, more like doll-like than they are even as a Nutcracker.

As the ribbon is unravelled the prince licks dried blood from his lips, and his attention focuses.

“You did not kill me.”

“Lucky break.” They both sound hoarse. Tired. No surprises there. “Maybe another time.”

The blade at the Rat King’s waist makes short work of the prince’s ropes, and he makes no attempt to catch the young man as he falls to his knees with a soft, exhausted huff, hands planted on the cold ground beneath. It takes only a moment for him to lift his gaze with steady expectation. 

It feels practised now, a dance they’ve perfected between them across the ageless decades they have been entangled by fate. Sometimes, when the prince has bested him, he claims victory in kisses instead, those plump lips moving in adagio, slow and soft and almost apologetic as they cross scars and fur and the living bone of his mask. Less often he will strip down and mount his lap. As a puppet he is elegant, but restored to a man for even an hour he is pure, liquid grace, and almost unbearably slight without that uniform in the way; there is something hypnotic in cupping that fragile waist, feeling the muscles tense all the way up his back with the subtle cambré of his spine as his body fights every thrust with clenches that only serve to urge him deeper. In the crescendo his voice reduced to feathers, but the word on his lips is unmistakeable: _Gabriel_.

When the prince is the one left staring down the length of his sword, the Rat King is not often so gentle.

For now he paces himself. Velvet whispers across silk and fur as the Rat King shucks his coat. Recognising the steps, the prince meets his hips with both hands to unbuckle his belt. It is strange, still, to find his hands so warm, but more than welcome- particularly once they have found skin.

Yet the prince is as agonisingly patient as ever as he waits, breathing softly against his rapidly fattening cock, eyes upturned and endlessly serene, even infuriating on some nights. Tonight, however, the Rat King does not have the energy to break him. Taking his cock in one hand he slaps the tip lightly against the prince’s cheek with a thick, wet sound, smearing white across those proud, high cheekbones- and already blushes are chasing away that ashy pallor.

Without a word, the prince parts his lips, presents his tongue and prepares for the next slap to slide into the wet heat of his mouth.

“Don’t bite,” the Rat King grunts, as if it weren’t the most tired punchline in their little _pas de deux_ , and the prince’s eyes still crease ever so slightly at their corners.


End file.
